"philharmonic" poems
A short and an earlier popular poem of mine. Hope you like it! Thanks, - Raj, New Delhi.
THE SURF-RIDER !
See him riding gallantly the crest of
waves,
With dexterity and poise and flowing
grace!
He rises to descend, to rise once more,
As the waves keep rolling towards the
shore!
Like those surfs the Rider continues his
mellifluous dance ,
Be it in England, in Spain or in France;
Riding high on waves as if in a trance!
The wind churns up the waves as it rises
and swells,
As the Rider manoeuvers his wake-board
riding those crests before it breaks !
Like a gymnast he executes strong cutbacks
- to reverse his turn,
His spirit dominate as the waves rise and
churn!
He did take his time to perfect his art ,
Having loved the sea and the surf from the
very start!
He learnt to live in moments just like those
dancing waves,
Floating on their crests as his blood within
raves!
Those surfs like musical notes rise up and
fall,
Where some surfs are short and others tall !
Like a philharmonic conductor par-excellence,
He commands those waves with his skilful
presence!
Friends, riding on Time’s moments is no mean
art,
But like the Surf-rider one must make a gallant
start !
-Raj Nandy, New Delhi
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 11:22 AM UTC
This year, Spring has been stopped in its tracks.
Incessant rain has driven life underground,
so as a diversion, we're putting on a play.
It's not the real world, rather a representation of it.
The director is a control freak, so her role is perfect-
she can dictate without having to act.
Rehearsals take place in the Philharmonic Hall where the local
band used to practice. But the young have all gone to the city
looking for work, so the drum kit in the corner stays shrouded
in a black cloth and the unplayed snooker table supports our props.
On the stage, the backdrop is dominated by a church.
Its steeple points to God only knows where, aiming to instill pure thoughts.
Impossible to believe, its true aim is to inject fear into its people-
depending on your point of view.
The main player likes to be different. He turns up.
A vain attempt to give some structure to his life.
Late as usual, he's unshaven, and drowsy with wine.
No one can decide whether he's in character or himself.
Waiting for our cue, we stand on the narrow balcony,
flicking damp cigarettes into the river of rain below.
Eventually, we all change, put on our monstrous armour,
become the same curious creatures following the same script.
Except one....
who refuses to change, deciding in his own mind where he will play his part.
So he pulls on his proofed coat and heads out for the bar.
Outside, the power is off.
The streets are silent. Even the cafes have closed earlier than usual,
tables and chairs left out in the rain chained together, like prisoners
crying for release.
He slips along the cobbled streets, chanting his lines in time with his own footsteps:
'There are more dead people than living....the living are getting rarer.'
Even he's not sure if he's quite himself or still in character.
Briefly, the clouds part to reveal the cold light of the moon,
the only thing in which he has absolute faith to guide him on his way.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2013
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 1:07 PM UTC
I have always wondered what kind of lover a pianist would be-
if they play others as smoothly as they do their instrument
With a strategic stride in their precision
Or if the touch is just as tender as the keys are embraced-
Philharmonic touch
Can a voice tune their heart as such?
I'm curious
If they find themselves as lost in another just as they do in the journey of their music
When I see the amount of passion portrayed in a musicians performance I can't help but find myself lost somewhere in between
(C) Tiffanie Noel Doro
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 3:21 PM UTC
Shall we drown together in deep lagoons of forensic cognitions, my seductress of medieval echelons?
As your mouth is already full, I strongly recommend that you masticate that which you initially intended to ingest.
We could become spellbound by the moon. What do you think my Vedic chant of austere arrhythmias?
I suggest that we simply need to interact without reserve amidst this toxicity of inhibition. The sound of the violin is hauntingly beautiful as it conveys literary intensity.
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 10:47 PM UTC
Spaces all the same,dimensions but different
Ideas the very same rushing in to fill voids old
From heads stuffed of past Imitations dead
Straight walls ever rising up,closing places free
Square,stiff,solid,regurgitating hard, spirits staid
The same colors but in different places, limited,
sick,drained of mind,with an empty soul I wept
Dear innovation creative where are you my angel?
Staring at space blank unchained to past I pondered
The angels came unannounced unknowing softly,
rushing to a heart,empty of mind,surrendered to an intent pure,
Dancing,guiding unfettered,intuitively fantastic,instinctively right
The walls falling away,squares smoothing to curves ****
New visions exciting,opening to vistas of unknown hues wondrous
That very dead space now alive,conducting,guiding a design philharmonic
"I" was but a medium,absorbing,directing flashes from unknown
Driven in a flash flood of euphoria unknowing, to an ocean creative
Knowing not what unchained me,setting me free for that Destiny fine,
Of Innovation. May be love or despair,whatever, Divinity came.
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 10:14 AM UTC
Meditations Over the George Washington Bridge
For Tyler Clementi
1.
I could hear the faintest of notes crying in the wind,
As if your fingers were still nimbly holding the bow,
Striking chords on your violin,
As my car rolled over the George Washington Bridge.
I think about how beautiful this is,
This feeling of suspension, how life is held
So taut on these wires, how simple it is to find
Weightlessness over all this water. My mind questions,
Did you second guess yourself? Did you know you
Were worthy of being held, cradled in more
Than just cool air and metal grates and wetness.
But I guess some higher being knew you better,
Than anyone did or could. Knew how those fingers could string
Harps and violins and heart strings, and you,
You were more than all of this, this wasteland
Where desires and kisses are taken for mockery,
And your love can be twisted against you
To make you feel light enough to float away into sleep.
2.
You flew that night. I could tell. Spread your arms like wings
Like a firebird descending into waves, looking to extinguish
Itself, and to take the world with it, to burn out the innate
Inhumanity of human beings. What they found floating
On those waves was a mere carcass, the shelling of your being,
You shed the unholiness of your skin off to alight yourself,
And blaze us with our ignorance.
They were too blind to see you flew that night, let yourself
Unravel into the sky, ripping through the darkness like a seraph,
Like some holy being, some light meant for a higher calling,
But I know what you did, I could see the shadow of you in the night
Gracefully floating. You, you are a testament to language spoken
And silenced, to the words stuck on tongues prying themselves
Through gritted teeth, you birthed meaning to the need for some sort of justice.
3.
You served your time well,
You messenger,
You,
You young,
Holy creature of God,
And I wonder as I pass over
Your take off spot,
How long you will string
Your notes over us
And how you would have fit
Into the Philharmonic
And looked walking up
For your degree
And how long your memory
Will haunt me
And how long your memory
Will stay a lesson learned
For us all.
Nov 8, 2011
Nov 8, 2011 at 5:31 PM UTC
and i do not know how to describe it
their doors are decorated with
wreaths and flowers
like a welcoming symphony
a philharmonic of hospitality
their lights are always on at the right time
and it seems that they are friendly to the environment
because
their solar panels gleam like a diamond
catching the light at the perfect time
they pile into the car in the morning
with three beautiful children
prim and proper
the husband looks as if he is
something out of a magazine
and his wife
resembles themis
carrying daily
the flames of passion
but the neighbors next door look sad
maybe it's just me
but when i wave, they do not wave back
they do not even smile
the neighbors next door seem rude
to those who pass
but i understand because
everyone wants to talk about the
neighbors next door
when they don’t realize
that
they are the neighbors next door
too.
Dec 31, 2018
Dec 31, 2018 at 1:49 AM UTC
in loving memory of my mother
Three simple cello notes answered by horns,
rising and falling winds
shine like the dawn of a luminous day.
Emergent violins wash the hall
with mystic Austrian radiance.
Looking across the stage
I meet the eyes of my Philharmonic friends
uniting in affirmation
of the matchless largesse
of the Brahms' second -
our collective soul vaulting the Atlantic
to the azure Danube's shore.
*It's 40 Christmas morns ago
and I am "20-ish" tearing floral paper
from a large green book and lean
to give my Mom a thank you hug.*
Three quarters of an hour
brush by like an autumn breeze
and I close that same green book
and turn to greet the audience -
searching beyond the walls
for that sacred somewhere
where Mom smiles down
from her eternal resting place.
August, 2013
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 11:59 AM UTC
A first date
Had he made the right decision?
Had she?
Two strangers
Tickets for the Philharmonic
Rachmaninov tonight, his second symphony
Oh it's to late now to speculate if she's educated
You're hear, it begins
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 8:16 PM UTC
Crowd begins to rustle
Lights begin to dim
Performers begin to sweat
The curtain fades
The noise of the audience fade
The first act music-student's courage fades
He focuses on the notation sheet
Stage lights focus on him
Spectators focus on the teenager
He plays the first downbow note
The crowd listens to him
Lights shine, never faltering
-
Multitude begins to grow impatient
Lasers begin to blink on
Pop stars begin to nod at each other
The darkness on the stage fades
Distraction fades from the crowd
Sweat on the band's hands fade
She focuses on the expanse of people
Yellow lights focus on all of them
The sea of people focus on the song
Bassist plays the intro
Die-hard fans listen to the heartthrob
Strobe lights shine, excitement escalates
-
Big finale performed by the orchestra
People shiver in their seats
Wood stage vibrates
The curtains are drawn
Listeners sated, their scores are a draw
Philharmonic members draw smiles
Assembly gives a standing ovation
Each student gives a triumphant bow
Curtains give way
Backstage, the people laugh
Stage director laughs from relief
Congregation laughs from witty student's last remark
-
Last verse of fulfilling song performed by band
Top section shivers from air conditioner
Big speakers vibrate on last note
Projector screens are drawn
Crowds draw their phones for selfies
Drummer draws his experience on notebook
Spectators give shouts of, "Encore!"
Band members give their farewell
Coliseum gives back lights
Pianist laughs recalling his slip
Volunteers laugh from crowd's reaction
Fans laugh at guitarist signing for them
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 11:21 PM UTC
Snowfall gently covered Belleville
in a blanket of softest down –
iridescent in the gaslight coronas.
A carriage pulled up at City Park Hall where
the coachman took white-gloved hands
and eased the ladies gently down the steps.
Some paused to pat the horses
in thanksgiving for the lift.
Top - hatted men offered arms to their wives,
escorting them up the snowy stairs
and into the buzzing lobby.
Trays of wine circled the room -
their cargo reduced at every stop.
Each raconteur spoke of celebration for the
Philharmonic had turned a decade old that week.
Programs in hand, people claimed their seats
while musicians on stage
practiced random admixtures of
excerpts that would come to order soon.
Then by the light of gas chandeliers,
Julius Liese raised his arms and brought
Haydn’s symphonic London to Illinois -
a citizen orchestra led by the local lumber czar.
After the final echoes melted into applause
and coats were lifted over shoulders;
the time had come for the waiting carriages -
snow still swirling in the gaslight glow.
The clopping of hooves on cobblestone
drifted into the passengers’ ears
and co-mingled with the echoes of
strings, drums and wind blown music
still singing in their memories
and irradiating their souls,
January, 2007
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 3:40 AM UTC
Ya couldn't call me restless
but nah, ya couldn't call me lucid either
Floating on a benzo-pretty philharmonic cloud.
Sharp bitey thinglings softened
they swim backward in confusion
and this Kwan Yin, floating freely
leaves them gasping on the sand.
She regards dark circles, smiling
She regards her injuries, smiling
She regards her troubles, smiling
All around, a pinkish haze
Nay, the chemicals won't will trip her
catch her painted skirt
and tear silk
to be jolted from her reverie
is never to be told.
This she knows, but now she floats
for she must have tangible proof...
that Reality is not real
and the text is set in BOLD.
00.11.6539
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 6:25 AM UTC
Do I have permission to board your train of unequivocal resilience, as we waltz into the aromatic contours of an Arabian illusion?
Letters have been written in the annals of predictive history as we slide down those astrological poles of heightened depravity.
Can you hear the chants of the spiritual forest, where silence screams her prohibited philharmonic octaves throughout the strata’s of seventh heaven?
The spirits of northern tundra have beckoned my weary soul to withstand the tides of obscurity.
What is your name? And, are you a victim of this desert storm of acoustic serenity?
I urge you to remain on the path, because if you ever get lost, then I will not have the privilege of meeting your acquaintance.
That is the sequel of linguistic wealth and intimate resentment.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 11:42 PM UTC
Primordial chants
YAH VEH
YAH VEH
YAH VEH
meditating in the soul of the black onyx beads.
Frozen drops of bliss nestling in the sinews,
soaking me in its sublime stillness,
leading me to its philharmonic depth,
yoking me to its cosmic vibes.
I sublimate
to become the chants
that pulsate in the soul
of the black onyx beads...
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 4:22 AM UTC
*in a room of silence
their heartbeats softly resonate
a timbre of gold*
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 11:54 PM UTC
I still remember.
(Sweet girl, for your own good, don't read this, please...)
You may not remember, but I still remember.
I remember it all like it's happening again,
I can see the same pictures,
The same views,
The views from all those times,
When I hurt you.
You may not remember,
When we went to see the Akron Youth Orchestras,
At our High School on March 23,
When the Youth Philharmonic played selections from Les Miserables,
When you were singing along to beautifully,
When I was embarrassingly rude.
You may not remember,
But I remember the time I called you in the Spring,
When it was 45 degrees and pouring rain,
When I got mad about something that didn't even matter,
That I made you so upset you ran away from home,
Then suffered horribly in that rain.
You may not remember,
But I remember just after, when the rain dried up some, the next Sunday,
When it was still 45 degrees outside but not pouring rain,
When you and I went for a walk in the cold to go explore,
When we got a little too excited up on that hill, I think you know what hill,
When my fingers noticed the scabs on your arm, how you kept your sleeve pulled down.
You may not remember,
When we came back home, when I saw for sure, when we were on the famous sink-hole couch,
Oh, the look on your face, my heart sunk through the floor, because I knew what I'd done,
That you'd cried awake at night when you lied about being okay, just to make me happy,
You had cut yourself as punishment, when only I deserved punishment.
I still see the look on your face, wrapped in my arms, to my left, I still feel you shaking...
You may not remember,
That evening, how we talked for 4 hours,
How we just held each other, when we both felt so horrible,
When I was dying for hurting you, when you were dying from the pain,
How we both cried together, how I made you promise to never again,
Made you promise to never cut again, if I'd hurt you or left you, because I knew was a monster
(who would hurt you again)...
I still hear your sobbing when you and I were in each others arms in the kitchen...
I remember many more things,
They haunt me more than memories,
Because memories are the recalling of an event,
Recalling of how bad or good it was and nothing more,
But I'm cursed to recall everything as if they are photographs in an album, CDs on a shelf,
I see it all, I hear it all, I feel it all, and I have no goals except to tell you I'm sorry over and over and over...
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 8:12 PM UTC
Grows.
It does, all the time
Outwardly
Refusing inward growth – not gladly
Preventing self-nourishment – a crime
That, and shifts and turns into cycle;
**Infinite and self sufficient
Destructive
A singularity most proficient**
...
Paradoxical, tormenting, intrinsic
Dissonant but harmonic! The madness of an eternal philharmonic!
...
Yea, it grows
**Love,
Desire, or is it a need?**
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 7:40 PM UTC
There is an ****** itch
For my hips to twitch
Whenever jazz hums it's philharmonic pitch
Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 11:59 PM UTC
It is what's it, an o'dourves on melody,
ears tuned to,
Again, again...again...
Beethoven or Mozart
timbers
threads strings dances on eardums
philharmonic, Building To sUch AN END!!!!
a pause, reposing low, resolving,
getting all the orchestra and Audience ready
for:
a little french horn, then flute...
tympanic growing
Violins again strumming.
A trill from a clarinet, a bass drum beating,
filling the lawn so full,
every soul on a last leg waiting
for the ********
END!!!.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 9:38 PM UTC
Phrasing, you say
Is imperative—
Parse, perfect, punctuate.
Language, you say
Should be philharmonic—
Finessed, finished.
Speaking, you say
Should be lucid—
Listen.
Silence, you say
is a run-on sentence
and should never be
left in the air because it's
not comfortable when
you can hear the clang
of the heating vents and
the click of you there
third row playing with
pens and the tick of the
clock as nearer grows
a time when the gates
of this false laboratory
will whoosh open to a
windy world and the
hush in your head and of
cinderblock, whitewashed
will be no more.
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 6:12 PM UTC
Tryouts starring musical prodigies
and/or an attendant conductor
attempt to approach ambient chorus
divinely exhibited from Gaia's handiwork
heavenly invoking kapellmeister's
magnificent nonchalant outlook
piquantly, quintessentially, repertoire sensately striking
unmatched vast wisdom yielding, zephyr air albeit creativity
engineered from groundswell harmony
juxtaposed, kindled, linkedin,
manifesting noteworthy opulent philharmonic recording
transcribing universal veritable webbed wide world.
Wunderkinds yield Ziggurat acme approximated asymptote
bequeathing celestial Doppelganger Earthly emulations
formulating fractal glinting highlighting
ineffable joie de vivre jostling, keen kindling,
la la land legerdemain lifting logic
lording Ludwig (Josef Johann) Wittgenstein.
Yelping zoological apostle Al affidavit Gore handily
heaping hubristically invocation jolting kickstart measures
nipping nixed noblesse oblige opera
quickening quotidian rapid ruination sans supreme
teetering upended venerated wise with acumen
arithmetical Benoit Mandelbrot
chasing far-fetched ideas
lightyears menacing nihilism purging ogres opportunistically
resplendently ripping revered tankard tipping unstoppably
vanquishing varietal whipsawing wonderfully
wrapt yawning youngsters
warfare written wrought
yanking zestfully crushing environmental family
granting Herculean instant karma
malevolent, opprobrious pronouncement
quiet riot silencing severely tragic ubiquitous vicious wreckage
yikyaks apemen cleft Earth.
*************************************************
Future foragers denounce capitalistic bamboozlers aggression
zealots wrought trashing quintessential naked kingdoms issue
flotsam coagulates zonal wastelands torquing quality NON
killing habitats Earth bleached yellowed voodoo ruins.
Aug 21, 2017
Aug 21, 2017 at 12:12 AM UTC
Take me to a miracle
I asked of "no one in particular."
Give me a philharmonic in the sky
And a blazing talking bush.
Let me see a virgin’s ghost
and a lame man dance a jig.
I’d like to catch the show just once
before I flee this vale of fears!
Then no one in particular chided me
called me “vanity’s clown.”
Still, I tried to call him out
in the realm where words are born.
I thought that if I could crack the code of
how a vision breaks the void.
or how a proud and callous tongue
can raise a sanguine humor
or how a toddler breaks the silence
with his first astounding word,
then I'd topple “no one in particular”
from his lofty station!
But alas I failed to own the source
of a solitary thought or word
or what it means to care or conjure
or why I came to seek a miracle.
A hidden voice from nowhere in particular
gently slaked my feeble pride,
“Surrender to each dawn and dusk;
they're all the miracles you need.”
December, 2007
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 11:36 PM UTC
Pacific, pacifist pampered papa
parading par excellent paragon
parent (parenthetically parochial
particularly partisan) parvenu
passive, passionately paternalistically patient,
paunchy, peaceably pepped, perfectionist,
perceptive, perennially perky, permissively
persevering, persistently personable, perspicuous,
pertinent, phenomenally philanthropic, philharmonic
picturesquely pious, pioneering, piquantly pithy,
playfully pleasant, pleasurably plucky, plummy,
poetically poignant, politely pontificating, popular,
positively potent, powerfully practiced pragmatist,
praiseworthy, prayerfully precious, precise
predominant, preeminently preferable, preparedly
preponderant, presently president, prestigiously
prevailing, priceless, princely, principally pristine,
privately privileged, prized, proactively procreative,
prodigiously productive, proficiently profitable,
progressively prominant, promisingly prompt,
prophetically propitious, prospectively protective,
proudly proven provocative, prudent psyched, puissant,
punctilious, punctually purposeful.
May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 1:07 AM UTC
Thoreau regaled us ‘bout Walden Pond,
The simple life, of which he was fond.
Of the beauty of trees, of birds and of bees
The sound of the leaves as they’re rustled by breeze.
But me, I like the City life, full of hassle, full of strife;
The bantering with friends and wife, words that soothe, or cut like a knife.
These are my true heart’s delight, big things, little, even slight.
We carry on through day and night and say such things. Oh, so bright!
Yes, give me urban life, my friend, full of action with no end
It’s not for me to laze about, I’d go quite mad, without a doubt.
To relax? I’ll do my yoga, meditate or just be Zen
Not for me to hike or camp or scout; I like the indoors, not the out.
Thoreau regaled us ‘bout Walden Pond
But with each country trip, I know he’s wrong.
We’ve got our flowers and our trees, all in the park
We even have streetlights to glow in the dark.
We have Philharmonic, operas and plays, enough to last for days and days
Or so many movies for us to see, or ball games if that’s your glee.
To get around we go underground, the trains cover the whole **** town
Or if you prefer a maze, go to the Village and find your way.
Yes, Thoreau regaled us ‘bout Walden Pond,
The simple life, of which he was so fond.
But me, I’ll stay here in the town, the place of which there’s no beyond
I’ll have my fun from dusk till dawn, then start again without a yawn.
Those country folks can have their lawn with squirrels and deer and baby faun
Each to his own, I’ve heard it said; leave me here or I’ll be dead.
Take those woods, I know you love it.
But as for me? You can shove it.
May 21, 2017
May 21, 2017 at 4:52 PM UTC